Tigers vs. Athletics

Jim Leyland was marching through the visitors’ clubhouse wearing nothing but underwear and baseball leggings.

“Hey, Ingey!” he hollered as he spotted Brandon Inge, then the Tigers third baseman.

Inge turned to see his half-naked, then-66-year-old manager, smiling and relaxed. Inge smiled in return, then swiveled his head back toward me and muttered:

“I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.”

He was joking, of course, and more than used to witnessing his manager in all manner of dress — or half-dress, as was the case that July in Kansas City two years ago. Here was Leyland, laid bare, too old to be self-conscious about walking through a clubhouse of professional athletes half his age.

I thought about that scene while watching the Tigers celebrate their third straight Central Division title last week in Minnesota. Leyland was giving an on-camera interview, tears flowing, when Torii Hunter burst in, picked him up and hauled him into the delirium in the middle of the clubhouse.

For the next 6 seconds, Leyland jumped under a waterfall of champagne, then turned to face his players and moonwalked out of the scrum, gesturing with his hands as if shooting a pistol in a kind of improvised cowboy-robot dance. He had to get back to his television interview.

Yet even without that obligation, he wouldn’t have stayed. This was the players’ time. He figured they deserved space.

After eight seasons and four playoff appearances, we’ve learned a few things about Leyland. We know he can moonwalk, and we know he has no problem marching half-naked through the clubhouse.

We know he is not a phony; he doesn’t mind holding media sessions while lying on a couch shoveling eggs into his mouth; he doesn’t require a table and chair and an MLB backdrop every time he sits before a camera. We know he doesn’t always check his emotions — whether feeling stressed or frustrated or sentimental —in order to portray himself with more polish.

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This hasn’t always served him well in the eyes of some fans. His players, however, love him for it.

“He always treats you like an adult,” said catcher Alex Avila. “He knows when to pat you on the back and knows when to get in your ass. He knows when to ruffle feathers a little bit.”

Just as he did that weekend in Kansas City when players got a glimpse of his unvarnished flesh. At the time, Inge was in the midst of his worst slump as a Tiger. Yet what irritated Leyland was that Inge kept telling reporters he was ripping the ball.

Seeing the quotes bothered him. Having tried every other tactic, Leyland used the media to spread his message. The maneuver was a last resort because Leyland would rather err on the side of protecting players.

Leyland’s critics only saw Inge’s name reappearing in the lineup. They weren’t privy to the inside strategy, to his decision to holler “Ingey” in the clubhouse even as he exerted pressure from his office.

Ultimately, Leyland couldn’t stop Inge’s slide. But he tried, which was the point, and with Leyland that often goes unnoticed. The assumption was he didn’t know his third baseman stunk.

He did.

For some it just got buried under the mumbling interviews and postgame dinners in front of the camera, when he appeared as if he couldn’t be bothered to talk about his team, that the steak and potatoes were more important. That picture didn’t help his image with his critics.

I never understood the inability to wait another 5 minutes before chowing, either. On the other hand, this is his world. He doesn’t care if the curtain is pulled or not.

Sure, he can be unpredictable during his daily media sessions. He can rant and swear one day and joke and tell stories the next. With Leyland, we get it all — the insight, the singing, the dancing, the moodiness.

More than anything, we get a daily glimpse into his mind, into the way he has corralled a group of multimillionaires into a winning group.

Leyland understands how hard it is to play in the majors. Every decision is designed to reinforce that belief among his players. This helps explain why he is at the top of the list when players are polled about who they would most enjoy playing for.

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He is protective to a fault. When Jhonny Peralta was suspended earlier this season, Leyland kicked a reporter out of his office in Cleveland for asking about it. In fact, he often barks when he doesn’t like a line of questioning, as he did Tuesday at Comerica Park.

Asked about his rotation in the playoffs, he answered curtly, almost daring anyone to ask again. The tone was harsh, unnecessarily so. Yet egos are in play when it comes to who gets to start in what slot. I’m certain Leyland wanted to avoid upsetting his pitchers.

This is the same reason he wouldn’t talk about Peralta. He knew he might have to manage him again, and he wanted to protect him. Players notice this.

As Avila told me, Leyland’s personality and approach are “not underappreciated by us.”

In a way, what else matters? Leyland aims to win. Winning starts with players. The rest of the world can think what it wants.